All morning her mind had been groping for the words of Hardy’s poem. As she stood at the office window, a boy who’d been sitting by the horse trough waved to a girl on the other side of Broad Street. And the first lines of the poem appeared in Pat’s mind.
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
That wasn’t the verse that appealed to her. It was another one, with a wonderful line about a dress. She couldn’t remember how it began, but she knew that it ended with the poet’s wife wearing an ‘air-blue gown’. It was a sad poem, though, about a thin wind oozing through thorns.
Down by the horse trough, the girl threw her arms around the boy, and together they crossed the street to the nuns’ garden. Up at the second-floor window, Pat could look down from above, as if she were God. The high convent wall facing Broad Street had been breached to give public access to the garden and there was another entrance as well, from the library courtyard. In summer flowering herbs softened the lines of the garden, but at this time of year, from Pat’s vantage point, you could clearly see the design. Formal herb beds, edged by low walls and box hedges, were laid out in concentric circles between gravelled walks. In the centre, on a plinth in a wide granite basin, was a statue of St Francis with arms extended and water gushing from carved flowers at his feet. Everything radiated from the statue, which faced a row of stained-glass windows in the old convent wall. The glass produced narrow streaks of brightness in greyness, and below the windows was the nuns’ graveyard, enclosed by cast-iron railings.
The sense of being the eye of God suddenly troubled Pat. It was as though life had been pulled inside out, and now it was she who was peering down at young lovers meeting, like Sister Benignus watching the world from behind panes of glass. Leaving the window, she went to get her coat. Last night Cassie had brought a message from Fury O’Shea, saying he’d be glad to give a hand if anything wanted doing in the flat. Pat knew that trying to ring him was pointless. He never answered his phone. Still, the lad in the hardware store would pass on a message. She could drop in and order the Chubb, and stroll round the town in the sunshine, and there was a nice café now in the nuns’ garden, so she’d go there for tea and a bun when she’d been to the shops.
* * *
At three o’clock Fury stepped back and admired the Chubb lock he’d just fitted to Pat’s door. He was flicking drill-dust from the paintwork when Frankie appeared, mounting the stairs from the shop. Fury held the door open and Frankie walked in with the air of a man expecting an explanation. Pat beamed in welcome. ‘There you are, son! I didn’t know you’d be passing.’
Frankie turned an aggrieved eye on the door. ‘I didn’t know myself but I’d business in town so I thought I’d drop by. What’s happening here?’
‘Wasn’t it great luck? I went out for a lock and who should I meet but Fury?’
Frankie’s eyes swivelled to Fury, who tucked his polishing rag into his pocket and said he’d be getting on. ‘You’re grand there now, Mrs Fitz. I’ve The Divil below in the van so I won’t stop.’
‘Ah, no! Would you not have a cup of tea after all your trouble? And the poor little dog must be dying of heat in the van. Bring him up and I’ll give him some water.’
She looked at Frankie, invoking his support, but Frankie’s face darkened. ‘What did you want a new lock for? And, if you did, you could’ve called me.’ He reached out and swung the door, as if inspecting the handiwork, sending a screwdriver skittering across the floor.
Fury stiffened almost imperceptibly. Then he smiled at Pat. ‘I wouldn’t say The Divil would refuse a saucer of tea.’
‘He’d be very welcome to it. Bring him up and I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve a cake here in the tin.’
‘I will, so.’
Frankie looked blandly at Fury. ‘I’m afraid we can’t have a dog coming through the shop.’
Fury lounged across the room and bent to retrieve his screwdriver. When he stood up, his expression was equally bland. ‘Is that right?’
Pat gave a little cry of distress. ‘Ah, no, Frankie, it’s only The Divil. And Fury went out of his way to give me a hand. I met him below in the hardware shop and he came straight round.’
Frankie reached for his wallet. ‘What do I owe you, Fury?’
Briefly, Fury held Frankie’s eyes before turning deliberately and addressing himself to Pat. ‘I’ll let you know in due course, Mrs Fitz. There’s no hurry. I’ll see you another day.’
‘You will, of course, and you’re very good, Fury, I appreciate it. Go below and get The Divil now, and put him under your coat when you’re coming through the shop.’
Frankie interrupted her. ‘These days, Mam, there’s health and safety to consider.’
Pat grasped the corner of the kitchen table and two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. ‘There is and there always was, Frank, I’m well aware of that – your father was ever a man to go by the book. But this house has never failed in common hospitality. Fury stepped in on his free day and did a job for me. And I’ve just offered him and The Divil their tea.’
Shrugging his arms into his jacket, Fury turned on his heel and went down the stairs. Pat looked at Frankie, recognising the stormy look she’d often seen on Ger. She was used to Frankie being what she thought of as ‘a bit high-handed’, and normally she wouldn’t have crossed him. But to be so uncivil when Fury had been so kind was something else. She shot another covert glance at him, fearful that he’d march off in a huff. But instead, as Fury reappeared with The Divil under his arm, Frankie crossed the room and sat down at the table. With a sigh of relief Pat went to fill the kettle. Ever since Frankie was small, she thought, he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of missing a treat, and now, even though she’d crossed him, he still wanted to stay for a bit of her cake. She was flustered, feeling that Fury might not want to sit down with him, but Fury strolled over, took a seat, and perched The Divil on his knee. He seemed relaxed and unconcerned so, with luck, things were going to be fine.
Chapter Seventeen
Cassie was on the road to Ballyfin when a text came through from Margot. She pulled in to read it and found she needn’t have set out for work at all. Refurbishments in the salon had reached a stage that couldn’t be completed in an evening so, to avoid paying overnight rates to the workmen, it was closing at the end of the morning shift. There were no afternoon bookings, which meant nothing would have to be cancelled, so this had been deemed the least disruptive plan. Cassie couldn’t tell from the text what Margot thought of the decision, but no doubt she’d hear the whole story on Monday. And now she had an afternoon to spend however she liked.
Though the sun was shining, there was a chilly wind blowing from the east, and she’d set out dressed in a fleece-lined hoodie with a warm jacket on top, skinny jeans, and Doc Martens. Having got this far down the motorway, it seemed silly to drive back to Lissbeg, so she decided to turn inland to the foothills of Knockinver. When she’d taken her northern route last week in the library van, she’d noticed sheep tracks leading into the mountains, so perhaps, since she was suitably dressed, she’d take a solitary walk. There was a ruined tower somewhere round there, high up on a hillside, so if she could find the location again, she’d park and check it out.
The mountain range was spectacular. It ran north–south across the western end of the narrow peninsula, and the peak of Knockinver was almost as high as Ireland’s highest mountain, Carrauntoohil. Its river valleys were full of the sound of rushing peat-brown water, and its upper slopes were often lost in mist. Cassie was no mountaineer but she guessed that the way to the tower would require only a steep, scrambling walk. There might even be a proper car park, and steps to take her up the slope. Then again, there might not. Finfarran’s ancient monuments were an odd mixture of tourist traps with entrance booths and gift shops, and deserted s
ites with little or no signage, protected by nothing more than straggling barbed wire.
She found the tower more by luck than judgement. It was farther off the road than she’d remembered, and to reach it she had to pass the sign that pointed to Mullafrack. As she came to the signpost she could see the roofless tower in the distance, a square building rooted in rock, with its back to rising ground. It was too early in the season for much sign of new grass, but golden furze blazed on the sunlit hillside. Cassie hadn’t read a great deal but the dark tower and its gleaming backdrop made her think of a children’s book, called Elidor, she’d been given at the age of twelve when she’d had the flu. It hadn’t been her sort of thing at all, and she’d never finished it. Instead she’d been left with a series of vague impressions, because the bits she’d read had turned up in her feverish dreams. There was something in it about two towers, called Findias and Gorias, one of which she remembered as dark while the other was made of gold.
The track beyond the signpost was longer than she’d expected and climbed higher than she’d thought it would. When she left the car the tower was still about a quarter of a mile above her and, beyond it, the foothills rose to where the rugged mountain peak was capped in cloud. There was a stile set in the wall that enclosed the scrubby car park. Cassie crossed it and began the ascent, feeling a bit like Emily Brontë all alone on the moors.
The chill wind was at her back and, all around her, insects buzzed in the furze. Tasting the sharp upland air, Cassie felt a rush of satisfaction. This morning she’d imagined that by now she’d be working in the salon, making inane remarks to her clients and breathing in the synthetic scents of hair products. Here, on either side of the track, the waist-high furze smelt of warm coconut and the narrow way beneath her feet was floored with soft turf. Tough roots crossed it, forming occasional toe and heel holds, and sometimes, unaware of one, she stumbled to her hands and knees. When she tripped, the track became a tunnel and, looking ahead, she could see looming masonry, and a single blank window, like an empty eye. Then, when she got to her feet again, her head emerged into sunlight, the tower was recontextualised in the wider landscape, and she heard the sound of birdsong above the murmur in the furze.
The third time she stumbled she came down heavily and, inspecting her bruised hands, tried to place a new buzz that had sounded among the droning of the insects. After a confused moment she recognised the beep of a message alert and reached for her phone. Realising who it was from, she felt a tingle like an electric shock run through her body. Jack had never sent her a message before. Biting her lip, Cassie considered the screen. Ferdia had announced that syncing devices would mean he and Jack, she and Erin could all keep in touch about the book club but, in practice, there had been no need. The guys just did what they did and that was that. With no idea what to expect, Cassie opened the message and found a question for her to pass on for Ferdia, whose Wi-Fi had apparently gone down. Hitting the screen, she sent back a thumbs-up. The tingling feeling, she told herself, had been nothing more than the shock of landing hard on her hands and knees. With the phone back in her jeans pocket, she stood up unsteadily, licking the weal made by a twisted root across her palm. Then she kept climbing though the sun-warmed furze amid the song of the birds.
At the top of the track the ground widened into the plateau on which the tower was built. The rock was close to the surface here and growth was minimal, though around the base of the building, where fallen walls had trapped rainwater, the lower courses of stonework were dappled with yellow lichen and moss. Inevitably, the tower had seemed much smaller from the road. Now it reared three storeys above her, the ruined tops of its walls silhouetted against the sky. Beginning to walk around it, Cassie found a doorway blocked with rubble and, beside it, a large, rusty sign. According to the mottled print, the Office of Public Works was responsible for the site’s maintenance, which seemed to focus on preventing passing tourists suing for damages. Members of the public were forbidden to enter the tower, or to climb on its walls, and there was a stern warning about the dangers of the unlevel ground. Farther along, a circle of blackened stones had once held a campfire, and abandoned beer cans and rubbish suggested that local lads might use the site as a place to party. The empty eye Cassie had seen from the tunnel was a mullioned opening high in the tower wall. The first-floor windows were narrow, and there were none at ground level.
Continuing her walk around the base of the building, she turned a corner and, to her astonishment, bumped into Bradley Miller. ‘Wow! Er, hi . . . I didn’t realise there was anyone else here.’
‘Nor did I. Hello there.’ He held out his hand and, remembering his mixture of friendliness and formality, Cassie reached out to shake it. In stepping towards him, her foot turned on a stone and only the hand grasping hers kept her from falling. She righted herself and laughed. ‘Dangerous ground. I should have heeded the notice!’
Brad glanced around disparagingly. ‘What I want is a notice that tells me what this place is. How come there’s no information?’
‘I suppose they don’t expect many tourists.’
‘Well, they sure as hell won’t get them if they don’t provide the infrastructure.’ He stood back, looking up at the tower. ‘Pretty amazing, isn’t it? Anywhere else there’d be tearooms and guided tours.’
‘I know. But I like it as it is.’
‘So do I, actually. But tearooms make my job a whole lot easier.’
‘How come you’re still here? I thought the stop-off was only an overnight.’
‘It was, but not for me. The company reckons Finfarran could be a pretty cool destination. You know, a few days with organised tours and options for nights ashore.’
‘So this is reconnaissance?’
‘Pretty much. I had some time due, so it’s kind of a working vacation.’
As Cassie continued her walk around the tower he fell into step beside her. When she completed her circuit they stopped and took in the view. Looking east, back down the peninsula, she could see the edge of the green mass that was Fury O’Shea’s forest. Brad produced an iPhone and began taking photos. ‘God, wherever you turn round here, there’s another amazing shot.’ He put the phone back in his pocket and glanced down at Cassie. ‘I read about that exhibition you’ve got in your library.’
‘Not mine, exactly. I’m just a part-time temporary worker bee.’
‘Sounds like a pretty cool book.’
‘I don’t really know much about it. You’d have to ask Hanna.’
‘Is she your boss?’
‘She’s the librarian. There are volunteer guides who do tours of the psalter exhibition. But not at this time of year.’
‘Could you organise private tours for groups?’
‘Well, I couldn’t, no. Like I said, I’m just an employee.’
He nodded decisively. ‘I should meet with Hanna. Some of our cruises have cultural themes. Ireland and lectures on medieval manuscripts, that’s a good fit.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Not really. I’m just the guy who comes up with suggestions. Actually, my most successful so far was tequila-drinking in Spain.’
‘But do they make tequila there?’
‘We had to import it from Mexico. It was worth it, though. The Tequila Trail was one of our big hits.’ Seeing Cassie’s response, Brad grinned at her. ‘Everything we do is tailored to its specific demographic. Medieval Irish literature would require a different approach.’
‘So will Hanna. Don’t start with the Tequila Trail. It wouldn’t go down well.’
‘I guess librarians like authenticity.’
‘Don’t you?’
He turned his brown eyes on her before he replied. ‘Yeah, I do. When I find it, I think it’s special.’ Stepping back, he looked up at the tower. ‘Like this place. It certainly feels authentic. I wish the Office of Public Works had felt we needed fewer warnings and more facts, though. How old would you say it is?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
Ther
e was a sudden gust of wind and Cassie shivered. Brad immediately sprang into action. ‘Are you cold? Come on, let’s get you warmed up.’
He set off at a brisk pace and, following, Cassie found him raking out the remains of the campfire. ‘What are you, a Boy Scout?’
‘Endlessly inventive, that’s me.’ He made a neat structure of charred ends of plank and gnarled furze roots. ‘Got any paper?’
‘No.’
‘Disaster. No, wait.’ He pulled a bundle of fliers out of his pocket. ‘God bless Ballyfin’s Fish World Experience. Nice flammable paper, and they made me take half a dozen.’
Crumpling the fliers, he inserted them between the pieces of wood. Cassie hunkered down beside him. ‘So now what? We rub two sticks together?’
‘Nope. I’m a smoker.’ Producing a cigarette lighter, he lit the paper, which flared up and caught the kindling at once. There was a rickety wooden box, which might have been used to carry beer cans up the track. Brad fetched it and set it down by the fire. ‘Have a seat. We can burn it later if we still feel cold.’
Still hunkered down, Cassie looked up at him. ‘Chuck it on and let’s have a big blaze now.’
He stamped on the box and the slats cracked and splintered, then they both began to feed the crackling fire. As the flames rose, Cassie could see the view down the hill through a heat haze. Brad settled beside her, sitting back on his heels.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘No, of course not.’ She could hardly object, she thought, with all the sluggish smoke billowing from the fire. The flames had reignited some plastic or rubber in the ashes, and the clean scent of burning wood had turned acrid. As it caught the back of her throat, it made her cough.
The Transatlantic Book Club Page 11